


smoke haze

by Ireliss



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Gun Kink, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27533176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ireliss/pseuds/Ireliss
Summary: “I used to do this for Vladimir Sharkovsky,” Yassen says contemplatively, but his eyes are alert, tracking Hunter’s gaze which seems to linger for a long moment on his mouth.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/John Rider
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	smoke haze

Yassen is under no illusions about the precarious nature of his status in Scorpia. He has talent, enough that it forms a temporary shield, but Scorpia recruits only the best and raw talent is not enough that he'll be allowed to get away with many more mistakes. The thing that sets him apart most of all is his anonymity, courtesy of the events of Estrov, but even that will be a flimsy shield once he begins operating in the field in earnest. And what about all those things working against him? His twitching nervous energy, his lack of experience, and most damning of all — the remnants of a conscience that he can't quite smother.

He needs to do something more. Hunter is the key, he thinks. Julia Rothman's interests may be fickle, but Yassen is certain he can survive as long as he can keep Hunter's interest long enough for Hunter to pass on the most essential parts of his knowledge.

The issue, of course, lies in how exactly he can accomplish such a thing. Hunter’s prowess is well-known; Yassen is hardly the only one vying for his favour. Although Yassen does his best to impress Hunter, he must seem like a fumbling child to him still — the gap between their experience and skill is simply too large to be breached. It is a gap that grows more apparent with every stinging criticism he receives, delivered with Hunter’s usual calm and just a hint of pity, but Yassen simply internalises it all and adjusts without complaint. Hunter will not find fault with him as a student. Yassen is resolved on that point. 

(It helps that he is affected to an embarrassing degree by Hunter’s praise. His teacher is not a man given to lavish compliments, so Yassen cherishes each rare, genuine smile he gets, turning the memories over and over again in his mind before time can rob them of their lustre.)

Regardless, being a good student isn’t enough. He needs some way to stand out from the rest of Scorpia’s hopefuls. Yassen’s first thought is that he should find some way to personalise himself to Hunter; after all, one of the first lessons Hunter had drilled into him was the danger of attachments. But Yassen can think of little that is likeable about himself, and anyway, it often seems Hunter knows him better than he does.

A trade? Yassen has nothing of value. Nothing, except certain specialised skills he had used to keep Sharkovsky's attention well enough to survive those three long years. But they’ll suffice as long as he’s careful about it. Yassen has accomplished more with less at his disposal.

In the beginning he starts slowly, carefully. He treats Hunter like a mark, applying all that Hunter had taught him. Observe. His own eyes are his most useful tools. Don’t move too fast; efficiency is admirable, but once the mark has been spooked then the mission may be compromised to the point of irreparable damage.

He tracks Hunter’s moods meticulously, the perfect attentive student, and all the while he insinuates himself closer by degrees. Nothing overt, nothing crass, just another student with a great deal of admiration for his teacher. He can sense Hunter responding favourably to the attention — not even Hunter is immune to the rush of shaping a young mind to his liking — so Yassen continues the steady escalation.

Leaning over Hunter’s shoulder as they study a map together. Drills on martial arts: he asks Hunter to correct his stance, and has to fight down an uneasy shiver as Hunter’s hands — a killer’s hands — tighten around his wrists and a light kick against the arch of Yassen’s foot has him falling into proper balance, and for a long taut moment they stand together, Hunter’s breath stirring the hairs at the back of Yassen’s neck, and Yassen breathes evenly through the instinctive _fear_ of having a killer at his back.

(Afterwards, sweat-soaked, chest heaving, Yassen tugs off his shirt as he watches Hunter with wide dilated eyes. A flicker of _something_ shadow Hunter’s face, dark heat and hunger gone almost too fast to be seen. Yassen smiles inwardly, pleased.)

And, once, when Yassen is feeling particularly bold, he takes his knife and fork and steals a bite off Hunter’s plate. The dish is salmon drizzled with lemon, rich and fatty against Yassen’s tongue. He chews, then swallows, a long slow bob of his throat and then runs his tongue against the tines of the fork and licks his lips, chasing the last notes of the lemon’s tartness.

“I used to do this for Vladimir Sharkovsky,” he says contemplatively, but his eyes are alert, tracking Hunter’s gaze which seems to linger for a long moment on Yassen’s mouth. _Good._ “There weren’t many good things about those days, but the food was always delicious.”

“You weren’t afraid of poison?”

“Hm. Yes and no. I did not want to die.” He looks directly at Hunter, then. “But I learnt to live with the fear after a while. There is no other choice.”

“…No,” Hunter says, after a thoughtful silence, then laughs shortly. “Eat up, Cossack! No poison for either of us tonight, I hope.”

The days pass. Yassen is acutely aware of the flow of time as it slips away from him, day by day, week by week, until Hunter is collected by its tide and Yassen’s best chance at survival goes along with it. It’s all very strange. Hunter doesn’t respond to his advances, but neither does he tell Yassen to stop, and Yassen refuses to believe that Hunter hasn’t already realised what he’s doing. His mentor is the most observant man Yassen has ever known.

So, what now? Is this another of Hunter’s tests? It must be.

Yassen waits and observes, biding his time until the right moment comes along. His chance comes with the successful dispatch of a rival operative. Hunter is in a good mood that night. The celebratory whiskey is brought out, and Yassen sips from Hunter’s cup, though he is careful not to drink too much. He needs his wits about him.

Hunter is surely aware of him when Yassen steals into his room later that night; Yassen moves with all the silent grace he had developed from his training and long months of practice, but Hunter is almost supernaturally canny, possessing an awareness of his surroundings that Yassen envies. As Yassen creeps closer to the bed, he readies himself for Hunter to rise up and demand an explanation. But nothing happens. Hunter is feigning sleep. Even to Yassen’s trained eye, the steady rise and fall of his chest under the blankets and the occasional snore suggests someone deeply asleep under the influence of alcohol.

Yassen takes it as implicit permission to continue. He climbs into the bed, sliding smoothly under the covers, and still Hunter doesn’t stir. He must be committed to feigning sleep. He is dressed lightly and casually in a t-shirt and loose pyjama pants — in other words, all easy access.

It is better to go slowly and ease both of them into it. A careful hand on Hunter’s thigh, first, just above the knee, intimate but not overly so. Hunter’s breathing picks up subtly, just enough to signal to Yassen that he is certainly awake now. Yassen leaves his hand where it is as he rearranges himself into a more comfortable position, resting on his side, cheek pillowed against the angular dip where the upper thigh joins the hip. It leaves no room for doubt as to his intentions.

Hunter doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t even acknowledge Yassen’s presence. Yassen is grateful. There has always been something dirty about this act, and as much as he longs for Hunter’s attention most days, right now, in this dark and hidden place under the linen sheets, he feels particularly small and unworthy.

At least he can make this _good_ for Hunter. Now that he’s in position, Yassen doesn’t hesitate. A slow drag of his palm reveals Hunter is half-hard already, responsive under his touch, and Yassen’s lips quirk up in a small private smile. This is one thing he knows how to do well, at least.

He had planned to savour this experience, a rare chance to be so close to Hunter, but in the darkness under the sheets Hunter may as well be any other man, anonymous and unremarkable. Yassen breathes in his scent and takes him into his mouth, tasting the warm, salty skin. He licks and sucks, employing every trick he knows to drag this out, tongue working in careful teasing kitten-licks to coax a slow build of pleasure. Nothing too quick. He wants this to last. He wants Hunter to remember this. Remember him.

A hand suddenly lands on his head. Yassen goes limp instantly, relaxing himself and ready to have his face fucked, but Hunter does nothing of the sort. Instead comes a hoarse, strained call of his name: “Yassen?”

He hums around Hunter’s cock, doing his best to sound eager, although how anybody could enjoy this he couldn’t possibly imagine.

A sigh. “Cossack.” Some of the strain is gone from Hunter’s voice, and already he sounds closer to the teacher Yassen knows. His pulse quickens a beat. “We should talk about this.”

He draws his tongue slowly up the length of Hunter’s cock, and only then does he pull back, lips making an obscenely wet noise as they glide over the glans. “You want to talk right now,” he says flatly, wondering if this means failure.

In response, Hunter simply pushes the sheets back, leaving Yassen no choice but to meet his assessing gaze. It’s hard to tell in the darkness of the bedroom, but he thinks Hunter looks flushed and dishevelled, some of his careful composure gone.

Perhaps not a complete failure after all.

“Sit up and look at me properly,” Hunter says, and Yassen responds to the tone of command, pushing himself up to a sitting position although he arranges his limbs to rest in a welcoming sprawl.

“Sir?”

Hunter blinks. “You haven’t called me that before,” he observes, almost to himself, then shakes his head. “If we’re going to do this, then you’ll do everything I say. Do you understand, Cossack? Everything.”

“Yes.”

“I’m serious.” Hunter is as unyielding as a steel trap. “I’m not interested in doing things by halves. I’m going to push you hard and there’s not going to be a reward for you after all this, if that’s what you’re after. I’d stop and think about what I’m doing if I was you.”

The accusation stings, even if it’s the truth — well, partly the truth. It isn’t purely ulterior motives that had brought him crawling into Hunter’s bed tonight.

“I understand.”

“I don’t think you really do, but we’ll see shortly. Stand up and go turn on the lights. I want you to see everything I’m going to do to you.”

Yassen obeys. Light fills the room in a blinding flood, but Hunter doesn’t so much as blink. “Clothes off.”

It’s impossible to tell what Hunter wants. Brisk efficiency? Or a slow, swaying show? Sharkovsky’s moods had often depended on how heavily he had been drinking, but with Hunter, there are different factors to account for. Yassen considers what he knows of his mentor, then begins to strip methodically. Hunter values precision. That is what Yassen will give him. With calm, measured movements, he folds his clothes and sets them to one side, until he stands in front of Hunter entirely in the nude, and is rewarded by a look of approval.

“You’re doing well, Cossack, but we’re still in the early stages. Turn around and let me see all of you.” Hunter’s fingers are wrapped loosely around his cock, jerking himself in unhurried motions. Even here, he is entirely composed. A thrill shivers through Yassen. Wordlessly he turns around, struggling to to maintain his poise through a torrent of unfamiliar emotions. He can’t quite describe it, not even to himself, but it’s as if his usual admiration for Hunter had suddenly increased tenfold.

Hunter would call him an idiot for it, but his eyes would be warm and laughing.

“Not bad,” Hunter praises him again. “Come over here, back to the bed. Just like that. Now-” A warm hand clasps Yassen’s waist, just above the jut of his hipbone, and Yassen gladly allows himself to be guided down to straddle Hunter. They must make for a picture of contrasts, the two of them, his pale limbs against Hunter’s solid, confident presence. Hunter is still dressed in a loose t-shirt although his bottom half is bare. His cock juts up proudly, rubbing against Yassen’s, which is still only half-hard at best, although it is flushed rosy pink just like the rest of him, a physical reflex Yassen can’t control no matter how much he would like to mirror his teacher’s calm.

He jumps when Hunter takes _both_ of them in hand, their cocks sliding together, Hunter’s calloused palm wrapped hot and firm against him.

“You liked that, huh?” Hunter observes as he begins to jerk off the two of them in an unhurried pace.

Yassen shudders. He doesn’t know. Once again Hunter had ambushed him, forced him to confront feelings he doesn’t understand entirely. With Sharkovsky, he had never–

“You know, Cossack,” Hunter’s pace never falters, and he looks at Yassen with watchful brown eyes as though this is just another normal lesson, “Scorpia values having a diverse portfolio of skills in their agents. There’s a certain type of specialised operative we train known as swallows. Have you heard of them before? Your country is famous for using them to great effect.”

Yes. He knows. It was one of the topics covered briefly at Malagosto: the strategic use of sex to accomplish a goal, whether it be intelligence operations or blackmail or assassination. His stomach drops. “What are you saying? Is this another lesson?”

“I’m not saying anything like that at all.”

“Then why-” Yassen’s thighs twitch as Hunter’s cock thrusts against his, Hunter’s fist tightening in a long, deliciously slow drag. “Why bring it up?”

“It just crossed my mind, that’s all.” How could Hunter still be so calm? “You certainly have the looks to pull it off, although I’m not too sure about your temperament.” Before Yassen can object, Hunter shakes his head. “Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you can do it after all. Lie down, Cossack.”

That last command is given almost as an afterthought, but Hunter speaks with the absolute confidence of someone who expects to be obeyed, and Yassen doesn’t see a reason to protest. The duvet is soft against his back as he lowers himself onto the bed, all the vulnerable parts of his body uncomfortably exposed.

The steady motions of Hunter’s hand had stopped, but Hunter now brings that same hand up to Yassen’s face, fingertips nudging insistently at his lips. Yassen takes the hint and takes those probing fingers into his mouth, looking straight at Hunter as he _sucks_.

Hunter’s eyes go dark. “You should be more careful about what you’re offering to me. To Scorpia.” He shoves his fingers deeper in, deep enough that Yassen almost gags. “Your life no longer belongs to you. Do you understand that? Your skills, your body… Scorpia owns all of that now. You’re just another _thing_ to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.”

Yassen thrusts his tongue against Hunter’s fingers until everything is hot and wet and slippery — he knows how this goes, knows he’ll be lucky if Hunter stops to prepare him at all before taking his pleasure. He knows, too, that this is just another test. He’ll endure it. He’ll show Hunter he’s worthy. He will.

Hunter must have seen the determination in his eyes because he makes a low noise, quick and dismissive. “You still think you can handle it? That confidence is going to get you killed.”

Abruptly, the fingers are yanked away from his mouth, leaving Yassen to gasp for breath. Hunter looms over him. He had moved so fast that Yassen hadn’t even been able to see, and now there’s the glint of metal in his hands: a pistol, the handgun Hunter had kept by the bed. It is loaded, of course.

Hunter points the gun at him and Yassen’s breath freezes in his chest.

But Hunter’s finger rests on the guard, not the trigger itself. The safety is on. “If you’re not going to kill me,” Yassen begins, then stops.

Hunter thumbs at the safety. “Would you stop me?”

Slowly, Yassen lifts one hand, touching the line that runs across his neck, straight as a ruler. It will fade with time, but for now it is still a deep, rusted red. “My life already belongs to you.”

In more ways than one. He has not forgotten why he’s here. He needs Hunter’s favour if he’s to survive Scorpia.

“I won’t stop you if you want to give your life away so cheaply.” Hunter’s voice is hard, his expression forbidding. “You think I’m a good man? Think again, Cossack. There’s no such thing as good men when it comes to Scorpia. Not you, not me, no one.”

The gun draws closer. Its muzzle presses against Yassen’s throat, a kiss of cold metal that trails up to his neck, tapping at his lips. Yassen is forcibly transported back in time, to another man, another gun — an old-fashioned revolver, six chambers loaded with one bullet. Is this his fate, Yassen wonders. Punishment, for surviving Estrov when everyone else had died?

He exhales slowly, then wraps his lips around the gunmetal. If Hunter is the one to own him, Yassen can accept that.

Hunter must see his decision. He pushes the gun forward, the acrid, bitter metal filling Yassen’s mouth completely. “Here’s how this is going to go,” Hunter says, utterly calm even as his eyes go dark and lidded. “You can cry if you want. You can even scream, although I hope you’re made of sterner stuff than that. I won’t stop. But-” A rough thrust of the gun, the front sights scraping at the roof of Yassen’s mouth hard enough to tear skin, “- _if_ you ask me, if you say no, then we’ll stop right away and we’ll forget this whole thing ever happened. Do you understand me? You can stop this at any time. But only if you ask.”

Yassen won’t. He’s resolved on that point and Hunter must know it too, because he sits back with a sigh. “Okay. Have it your way.”

The gun is drawn back, but not very far. Hunter makes sure he can see every detail of it, from the sheen of saliva wetting the metal to the grooves and ridges that line the barrel of the pistol. Yassen’s eyes are irresistibly drawn to the front sight that sits above the muzzle. It’s flat and triangular, not too large, but it juts out in a way that promises to scrape him raw. He swallows.

“One minute. Prepare yourself.”

Yassen swallows again. Questions, pleas, anger — all trapped and suffocating in his throat as old habits take over. He parts his legs, methodically wetting his fingers with spit and pushing them inside himself with quick, rough motions. His arousal had long since started to flag, so Yassen strokes himself back to full hardness again, knowing the adrenaline and rush of hormones will make the pain — less. Bearable.

Hunter keeps the gun trained on him through the whole thing, although his finger stays off the trigger. Even now, Yassen feels a guilty thrill as he peeks at Hunter through his lashes, watching as the older man strokes himself leisurely, his dark eyes entirely focused on Yassen. The memory of that broad, gun-calloused palm on him is a good one. Yassen focuses his thoughts on it, allowing his mind to make up the other details: Hunter’s low warm laugh, the perfect way their hips would slot together…

“Time’s up.”

Nodding, Yassen exhales slowly. “Yes. I’m ready.”

“Sure you want to go through with this? Remember, you can stop this at any time. You just have to ask.”

When Yassen shakes his head, Hunter advances closer. The first brush of the gun’s muzzle against his hole sends a full body shudder rippling through Yassen, but he breathes through it, deeply and evenly, meditative. It’s useless to dread what’s coming. It’s even more useless to dread the possibility of an accidental — or deliberate — discharge.

So Yassen simply doesn’t think at all.

The muzzle catches against his rim, but then Hunter gives a _push_ and it slides smoothly inside. The metal is still warm from Yassen’s mouth earlier, an unyielding hardness that slowly but surely forces him wide open. It takes all of Yassen’s restraint to not fight his way free; instead, he braces his hands against his thighs, keeping his legs spread and his body receptive.

“Good,” Hunter says lowly and even now, that’s enough to send warmth spreading through Yassen.

Hunter fucks him with the gun in slow thrusts. Yassen’s gaze flicks down, taking in the sight of the hard metal pushing itself inside his body, and with a shudder he peels his eyes away to watch Hunter’s face instead. His teacher is absolutely in control. He pumps his cock in time with the thrusting of the gun, setting a quick but methodical pace. As expected, it _hurts_. The metal is a heavy weight bearing down on him, fucking him loose, a dull ache counterpoint to the sharper edge of the front sight which scrapes him raw and hollow. He wonders if he’s bleeding. Would Hunter stop if he was? Yassen doesn’t think so.

The thrusts grow quicker, a series of small rough jerks as Hunter buries the gun inside his unresisting body again and again. Let it be over soon. Please. He watches Hunter with eyes glazed over, thoughts swimming with blood and nervous fear, dreading the sharp fatal crack of a gunshot.

“You can still stop this.” Hunter barely sounds winded.

Again, Yassen shakes his head. “Just finish it,” he rasps, stomach lurching at the hunger on his teacher’s face. All of Hunter’s intensity, now focused on him. This was his goal.

“Only if that’s what you want. Is this what you want, Cossack?”

When Yassen doesn’t respond, Hunter crowds in closer, a dark looming shadow falling across him. The thrusting of the gun reaches a frenetic pace. “Is this what you want?” He demands again.

“Hunter, please–”

The gun _twists_. Yassen’s whole body jerks, a soft cry of pain slipping out. “Yes!”

The next thing he knows Hunter is on top of him, pinning him to the bed, biting a possessive mark against the scar on Yassen’s neck. His cock thrusts between their stomachs, and with another few quick jerks of his hips Hunter comes with a guttural growl, streaking wet and messy all over Yassen’s front.

The silence and stillness that follows is almost startling compared to the frantic activity not even five seconds ago. Hunter is a solid weight on top of him, wrapped all around him like an embrace. Hesitantly, gripped by an impulse he doesn’t entirely understand, Yassen curls one arm around him, hand resting tentatively against his back in a half-hug.

Finally, Hunter speaks. “You stupid boy.” He sounds tired. “Why did you let me do that to you?”

Yassen doesn’t know how to reply. He closes his eyes and holds on more tightly to Hunter.

To his surprise, Hunter holds him in return.


End file.
